


Queen of Air and Darkness

by historymiss



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:42:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/historymiss/pseuds/historymiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally written for Dragon Age Ladies week on Tumblr befire it turned into Morrigan week. I can think of no lady more awesome than Flemeth, and I've been wanting to write a bit about her life and times for a while. Replaying Origins recently has helped! Title is from The Once and Future King, although Flemeth is far and away better than any of the witches in that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queen of Air and Darkness

The world's at war again. It's always at war. Mage against templar, tribe against tribe, human against Darkspawn. As long as they struggle and fight against each other, Flemeth sees no reason why the people of Thedas will not continue to fight until the all the lands are barren and dead, from the peaks of the Vimmark mountains all the way down to the Deep Roads beneath, and then nobody will need witches any more. It's almost exhausting. 

The world is better from the sky. It unfolds beneath her wings, all jagged mountains and tiny doll cities she could crush between her claws, although Flemeth is far too old for petty crushing. She'd burned out all her rage long ago, and besides, what rampage could compare to the systematic destruction a little concerted effort in the right place can wreak? A child, stolen, may grow into anything you like. The right bargain can give you more power than a thousand cities.

Speaking of which... a flare of light catches her eye. Magic. And as she watches, a small miracle is played out below. Not the defeat of the ogre, which is impressive of itself, but the reveal of some of that small stuff out of which a hero is formed.

She flicks a wing and turns to look more closely. If Flemeth does not miss her guess (and she rarely does), there's a bargain to be struck.

\---

Morrigan is better than Macha but more tiresome than Badbh, Flemeth decides. Over the years, her many daughters have faded into one: dark hair, petulant tone, demanding voice eventually silenced. Some were greedier than others, all lacked ambition. They go before they can really grow into their personalities, a tiresome, squalling cavalcade that makes one quite weary.

Better, Flemeth finds, to focus on the here and the now and Morrigan, who is turning out to be quite full of promise. Her taste for jewellery is something that needs to be corrected (the girl gets googly eyes over every shiny stone) but her talent for shapeshifting is impressive, although Flemeth will never tell her that. Praise does not build power as effectively as resentment.

Once, when she was small, Morrigan had tried to hold her hand. She must have picked it up from some travelling merchants, for Flemeth had certainly never planted such ideas in her head. When Morrigan came back, red-eyed and smarting from the blow, she'd discreetly tried to poison her mother's porridge.

Flemeth had liked that much better.

\---

"Tell me a story of witches, da."

The Korcari Wilds are a hard place to live. Nobody disputes that, least of all the Chasind, though for them the difficulty of their lives is a source of fierce pride. The family huddles around their peat fire and tells themselves that they would not trade this for the stone houses of the barbarians and their burned goddess. Pega looks down at his daughter and roots in the corners of his mind for a tale.

"What about Flemeth and her daughters?" The little girl nods solemnly and Pega continues with the story, his memory spinning out the tale his grandma used to tell. The story of Bann Conobar is familiar to every Chasind, for it holds the roots of their deepest fear. His daughter listens, rapt, her wide brown eyes drinking in the story like water.

"Magic is a terrible thing, my flower," Pega concludes, "and in a woman it's the worst curse of all."

That night, Pega's daughter gets out of bed and walks along the marshland in the moonlight, looking for witches.

"You're Flemeth." she says to the old woman, without a hint of surprise. It is entirely right that witches should be real. "My da told me about you." Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's scared of witches."

Flemeth nods and looks to the darkness of the woods. "I know about you, little flower. And tell me, what do you think of witches?"

\---

It does not matter how it began. This is how it ends. A room, a woman kneeling for the last time. She could charitably be called beautiful, although her beauty comes from the strength of her expression rather than the lines of her face, and that is just the way she likes it. Her hair is already touched by silver, and it flickers in the candlelight as she draws the knife steadily across her palm. A hiss of indrawn breath, a rush of magic, and it is done. The candles flare. She is not alone.

History does not record if it was a spirit or a demon, only that it was powerful, and in the end, is that not all that matters? The woman stands and brushes off her skirt, her bloody hand held awkwardly away from her clothes. It takes her a moment to meet the creature's gaze, but when she does she is completely fearless.

"You want power." The creature's voice is like the ocean, although the woman has never heard it. It's like the blood rushing in her ears. She smiles. Tuts. She is, perhaps, the first person in history to wag their finger at a demon.

"Ah, but we have not discussed the terms yet. Let us bargain."


End file.
